It was perhaps a month after this when Dale heard news which plainly
indicated that the wicked son had completed his horrible task. He had
eaten up all that there was to eat.
Mr. Osborn said that old Bates had given his landlord notice, and he
was leaving his cottage almost immediately. The matter had been
brought to the pastor's knowledge because one of the Baptist
congregation thought of taking the cottage, and had asked Mr. Osborn's
advice.
Other people, who professed to know more than Mr. Osborn, said it was
true that Bates had given notice, but it was also true that he owed
two quarters' rent and that the landlord was determined to have his
money. To this end everything the cottage contained would be seized
and sold. And what would happen to Mr. Bates when not only his house
was gone, but all his sticks of furniture too?
"It do seem a pity he ben't a young orphan female instead of a
wore-out old man, for then he cud move on into Barradine Home and be
fed on the best for naught."
The cottage and other cottages about Otterford Mill, although close to
the Abbey estate, did not belong to it. They were the property of
various small owners, and Bates' landlord, as Dale knew, was a
tradesman at Old Manninglea.
Dale, having heard the news on a Sunday evening, put his check-book in
his pocket very early next morning and rode over the heath to the
market town. There he saw Bates' landlord, readily obtained leave to
withdraw the notice, cleared off the arrears, and paid rent for a year
in advance. Then he rode straight to Otterford Mill.
"Good morning, William. Pray come in. But will your horse stand quiet
there?"
"Oh, yes, sir. He'll stand quiet enough. Only too glad of the chance
to stand. I keep him moving, you know."
"Don't he ever get jerking at the rein, and break his bridle?"
"If he did he wouldn't run away. He'd be too ashamed of himself for
what he'd done."
"Then step inside, William," said Mr. Bates once more.
He ushered Dale into a bare, sad-looking room; and the whole cottage
smelled of nakedness, famine, misery.
"Now, my dear old friend," said Dale cheerily, "what's all this
whispering that reaches my ears _in re_ you thinking of changing your
quarters and leaving us?"
"It's the truth, William. I can't afford these premises any longer."
"Oh, come, we can't have that. We haven't so many friends that we can
put up with losing the one we value most of all."
Then he told Mr. Bates what he had done at Manninglea.
The old man frowned, flushed, and began to tremble.
"You shouldn't 'a' done that, William. It was a liberty. I must write
and say my notice holds good."
Then there was a brief but most painful conversation, Dale nearly
shedding tears while he pleaded to be allowed on this one occasion to
act as banker, and Bates resolutely refusing help, refusing even to
admit how much help was needed.
"William," he said obdurately, "I recognize your kind intention--but
you've made a mistake. You shouldn't have done it, without a word to
me. I can only repeat, it was a liberty."
Dale of course apologized, but went on pleading. It was all no use.
Obviously Mr. Bates' pride had been wounded to the quick. He was
white, shaky, so old, so feeble, and yet firm as a rock. Never till
now had he spoken to Dale in such tones of stiff reproof.
"William, we'll say no more. I have paid my way all my days, and at my
present age it's a bit too late to start differently."